Through the Cracks

Shaylee slammed the locker before items could escape. The scowl on her face, mixed with body language Muhammed Ali would find intimidating, insured people wouldn’t bother her. However, there was always one.

“Shay! Why are you so happy?” Cassie’s perkiness mixed with well-meant sarcasm was met with a death stare. “Lose the mean-girl persona. It’s me. Remember? Closest thing you've got to a friend.” She was joking, but Shaylee knew it as truth.

They weren’t bffs or that ‘sisters in life’ shit, but they clicked. Different backgrounds, personalities, interests – yet, they provided the loyalty both needed.

Shaylee leaned against the lockers hoping their support would keep life from literally pushing her down. “I’m sick of damn self-reflection assignments. Creative Writing’s shit. Ms. Mitchell sucks ass!”

“Nice attitude. If only I could master your skill of working a cuss word into every sentence, my high school career would be a success.” Cassie searched her bag for a ponytail holder. Softball practice started in fifteen minutes. “I thought that class was a blow-off. Jake said it’s a breeze. What’s wrong with the assignment? Negativity not allowed?”

“Your fag boyfriend can kiss my white ass. It’s easy for him. Ms. Mitchell loves guys. He could pick random words from Playboy, slap 'em on paper, call it a poem, and she'd proclaim it a masterpiece.” Shaylee's anger toward authority was running full force.

“What’s the topic? Hurry, I got practice. Game tomorrow. You comin’?”

“Seriously? I’m not into school spirit shit. Are you ready for this crap? ‘Write an essay or poem explaining which flower most represents you.’ I’m a fucking senior, not a damn flower.”

Cassie truly did have a strange admiration for Shaylee's ability to use profanity in every sentence and make it sound natural. “Didn’t you do a thing like that last week with animals? I think Jake was a bull.”

“There’s a barrage of comments I'm thinking, but I’ll leave them unexpressed. Consider it my good deed for the day. I’m turning over a new leaf to get in touch with my flower side.” It was the closest Shaylee came to joking. Sarcasm was her weapon against life.

“I gotta run. Wanna meet up later and bounce ideas around?” Cassie would do anything for anyone, whereas Shaylee would do anything to avoid human contact.

“It’s fine. I’m gonna go to the Peaks and chill in my room.”

She never called it home. It was the Peaks's home; to her it was a place to stay until she aged out of the system. At least they didn’t treat her like the reason they took her in was to get a monthly check and seem like upstanding citizens. But when you get a seventeen-year-old kid that’s been bounced around since she was three, not a lot of bonding’s going to happen. On many levels, Shaylee was appreciative. After three months on the streets, having a roof and food seemed a daily miracle. She did what they asked while keeping a low profile. It worked, so why mess it up with feelings?

Walking down Walnut Street, her thoughts continued cursing the assignment. Some days I know who I am, and others I don’t have a fucking clue. What the hell? She kicked things in her path – rocks, trash . . . Something caught her eye. Putting her backpack down, she bent, gazing. Through the sidewalk’s cracks, one tiny flower grew. Technically, it’s a weed, not a flower. Shaylee sat down, studying it. She didn’t pick it; the weed had worked too hard to survive.

She remembered being five-years-old living on the Taylor farm. She’d run through the field picking dandelions - called them baby sunflowers. Their goofy dog lay at her feet as she picked off petals. “They love me, they love me not. They'll keep me, They'll keep me not.” Shaylee performed this ritual until it landed on either ‘they love me’ or 'they'll keep me'. Even at that young age, she knew better than to hope for both. She’d hide that stem under her pillow, hoping it would work, and this family would love her or at least let her stay.

I was a naïve child. She missed that innocence. It’d been a long time since she blew dandelion thistles believing in wishes - or even having wishes. Except the wish to be left alone so that nothing can touch you, hurt you, damage you further. Life’s not kind when your mother’s a crack whore. But, it was what it was.

Tracing the stem, Shaylee realized how much they were alike. People walked by and never noticed the weed; the way they treated her - just a number in the system, destined to fail. Statistics from noted psychologists convinced the world and the system that the 'formative' childhood years determined the type of person you would be. This weed hadn’t been trampled; just like she hadn’t allowed the prejudgment of others affect her. Both were stubborn, maybe even a little rough around the edges, but succeeding to prove the world wrong. Scanning the surroundings, there were no other flowers. This is a loner weed. She grimaced thinking it sounded like a new street drug targeted at people, usually young, searching for something to make them feel both alive and numb. Thank God that part of her life was over; she’d been clean for over a year.

“I’m a durable fucking loner weed.” No one glanced at the girl talking to a dandelion. The similarities tugged at her heart. She was a weed that grew up without nourishment, yet was surviving. The flower appeared frail, but it was strong. A gardener hadn’t fertilized it. Wait, fertilizer’s shit. I’ve had my fair share of that. No matter. They’d made it without extra attention, but somehow their roots were strong enough to persevere through the cracks, the obstacles.

The silky petals and shade of yellow contrasting with the gray sidewalk sung with beauty. Shaylee whispered, “No one’s going to send a dozen of us on Valentine’s Day, but maybe someone will see us and remark, ‘It’s a miracle that they survived.'

She dug her notebook out.

Popular girls are roses,

Emos are blue,

I'm a damn weed,

Who the fuck are you?



She scratched it out. That was what they expected – angry sarcasm used to provoke authority, assuring they didn't try to reach out to the poor foster girl that had experienced and seen more than anyone should; that had learned lessons the hard way, because there was no one to show her an easy way. Besides, sometimes a hard way was all there was. She was an expert at putting people off. For her psychological safety or theirs? Maybe just once in some cryptic way, she’d show them more. Not reaching out, but rather, reaching within.



I’m not . . .



exotic like an orchid,

common like a rose.

No one even sees me,

no one even knows.



I am . . .



alone without a history.

I’ve made it through the cracks.

I’ve seen all around me;

there is no looking back.



I hope . . .



someday a child may see me

for the miracle I am.

A weed in a flower's world

making it any way I can.





Shaylee allowed herself a genuine smile as she bent to kiss the flower.

A young girl with pigtails came running. “Hey, are you gonna pick that flower?” Innocent blue eyes sparkled with wonder at someone kissing a flower. Her pure imagination, that only children truly possess, imagined the yellow petals must be filled with magic for someone to be giving it such love and attention.

Shaylee looked at the girl, then the flower. “Actually, it kinda picked me.”